


Doubts in Death

by Zyla



Series: Spaces In Between [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I love Pepper, Moving On, Other, Overprotective Tony Stark, but shes hardly in this sorry, dont worry it’s not THAT sad okay, i want to write more with her tho, its actually pretty chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyla/pseuds/Zyla
Summary: Peter Parker is always alone. It’s the way of life, a rule of thumb.But there are men who have outsmarted the ways of the universe before.





	Doubts in Death

**Author's Note:**

> YOOO this is a rush guys! i thought of it while trying to fall asleep and i got this mess  
please excuse any errors, it’s super late !

The only explanation was the good ol’ Parker luck. Dubbed after the many misfortunes in Peter’s life, the idea of fate seemed both possible and impossible. 

He wasn’t religious, stopped believing in any higher power when he realized the simplicity in the world; it was cruel, with not much left to redeem itself. But now, he prays to whatever may exist that things will work out. He begs for mercy.

Peter’s eyes sting and he can barely make out the figures rushing through hallways. Even with enhanced vision, the tears that build on his eyelids make the world seem unclear.

Cancer is such a simple thing - it’s causes have been discovered, understood, and yet, there still is no solution. 

Peter fucking Parker can create goddamn war machines but not a cure. 

The end of the armrests creak below his unforgiving fingers and he is oblivious to the splinters that embed into his palm. His chest feels compressed, like his lungs can’t pull in enough air. 

May’s health had been declining rapidly. He knew he’d have to say goodbye. Somehow, it feels worse than Ben’s sudden death.

Ben’s death left a harsh impact. May’s inevitable end felt like he was taking his last breaths with her. 

He was preparing himself, hiding away his emotions to give her all the happiness he could in her last years.

Peter chokes on a sob. He must be dying. With the way his heart feels as though it will break through his ribs and how his lungs hardly fill. 

The splinters in his hand are suddenly all too real - he can sense where they break skin, can feel the steady drip of warmth as small beads of blood rise past his skin. 

The lights in the room are bright and blinding. 

He can hear the clicking of a woman’s heels down the halls. The beeping of monitors. The scratching of a pen on paper. 

He buries his fingers into his hair, nails getting caught on knotted dreads. He hasn’t showered in a couple days. 

“Sweetie?”

Peter’s head flings up. His hands fall into his lap. The bags under her eyes are visible, even under her layers of makeup. He can see every pore past the tears and—

He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales shakily. 

When he looks back to her, she looks confused but doesn’t mention his behavior. 

“Sweetie,” she repeats, “It’s been hours. Who can I call to pick you up?”

He blinks.

“To take you home?” She tacks on.

_ Fuck. _

He swallows and tries to smile. His lips don’t cooperate. 

She smiles sympathetically at him and plops down in the seat next to him. 

“I, uh. I’ll work it out,” Peter whispers hoarsely.

There’s a pause. She doesn’t reply.

Peter desperately wishes she would, just to focus on anything other than the clinking of jars, the gasps of pain, and the commands of doctors.

A hand moves closer to his, but abandons the action. Manicured finger tips edge around the ruined wooden armrest. 

“How old are you?” She asks.

The delicacy of her fingers is soothing, even if they aren’t touching him. They’re careful to avoid the splintered parts of wood. The hands of a doctor. He glances towards her chest but he doesn’t see any name tag.

“Didn’t know doctors were here to console grieving teens,” He grits out. It’s not an answer, not really, but whatever. 

She chuckles weakly. “Sadly, when your job deals with death, it _ is _part of the job. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” 

She hums. “May Parker. She was your family, yeah?”

Peter flinches. Her name hurts. It feels like conviction. 

He nods jerkily.

“I met her a couple times. She was lovely, always talked about her stubborn little boy. Every time she mentioned you, she had this look on her face.” The woman’s face slackens, looking reflective, before it upturns with a sad smile.

The burn of warm tears trace his features and he cringes at the droplets that collect at the edge of his jaw. 

“You need to get some sleep and live without her. Things will keep on—“

“With all due respect, _ doctor, _ I know how to deal with d— with this,” He hisses. Subconsciously, he knows he has no right to be such a dick. But everything hurts. He wants it to stop, needs _ her _to stop.

Her hand retreats and she leans back. “I’m sure you do.” 

Another bout of silence. It’s all too loud. The waiting room is empty, no other loved ones waiting for return. Ironic, that the only one willing to wait is the one that will have to wait forever. 

His ears are still ringing, the lights are still painful, but the pressure in his chest loosens enough for him to gulp down air. 

“Well, I called the emergency contact.”

Peter scoffs.“Did ya get sent to voicemail?”

There’s no one fucking left. 

“Oddly enough, I didn’t.” She smiles at something behind him. “You’d think he wouldn’t pick up,” she muses.

His mind does a double take and before he can recollect himself, there is a hand on his shoulder. It’s firm and familiar.

“C’mon, kiddo.” 

Peter’s almost certain this is what cardiac arrest feels like. He can count every beat that his heart _ should _be beating but is traitorously failing to.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers.

“Bingo.” The hand on his shoulder shifts. The pad of Mr. Stark’s thumb rubs comfortingly in circles. It’s a nice distraction.

The doctor smiles up at his mentor. Her eyes are affectionate, oddly motherly considering her young age. It reminds him so much of May that he has to stop and tell himself that it’s not. 

“Is he yours, Tony?”

Peter sputters.

“Sofia,” Mr. Stark breathes out in a laugh, “There is no way I could have a kid like this one.” 

Sofia glances back to Peter. It’s strange, the way her gaze seems to tear him apart and understand nearly each and every part of him. 

She finally sighs. “No, I suppose not.” 

Mr. Stark chuckles and pushes lightly at Peter. “Up you go, Bambi. Let’s get out of here.” 

Peter stands shakily from the chair. His hand reaches out blindly to steady himself. He’s fucking Spider-man: balance is his thing. His fingers end up curled around the material of Mr. Stark’s tux. He notices that the buttons are left undone, cuffs angled awkwardly. As if the whole outfit was thrown on in a rush.

Embarrassment floods into his stomach and he flicks his eyes up to his mentor’s. They’re deep, filled with emotions Peter can’t read, but they’re safe.

Mr. Stark’s lips pull into a sad smile and he places a steadying arm around Peter’s shoulders. 

Ms. Sofia grunts behind them. The chair he had damaged is in her arms. 

“Ms. Sofia— you don’t— I can help,” Peter stutters.

Ms. Sofia lifts it and walks to the reception desk. The receptionist is gawking at Mr. Stark, he finally notices, but the whispered words “close your mouth” from Ms. Sofia get him back to work. 

Ms. Sofia carefully drops the chair down. With a huff, she pushes thin strands of blonde hair out of her face.

“Oh, he’s definitely not yours,” She teases.

Mr. Stark shrugs half-heartedly. “I’ll pay for the chair.”

“No need.” She waves dismissively. “Get out of here.”

Almost mechanically, Peter moves towards the door with Mr. Stark on his tail. Everything seems to fluctuate; one minute, he feels numb, and the next he feels as though his heart will shatter. 

The glass doors slide open and they’re about to step out into fresh air, finally—

“Peter.”

Mr. Stark freezes behind him. 

“That look on her face when she talked about you? It was always love,” her voice drops down to a whisper, as if she knows that he, and him only, would hear her. “And I see that look on someone else’s face, too.” 

Peter turns and presents her with a shaky smile. “Thank—“ His voice comes out hoarse and gravelly. He swallows and tries again. “Thank you, Ms. Sofia.”

She nods. 

Peter pokes Mr. Stark and gestures to the exit. Exhaustion curls around his vision, threatening him with an oncoming darkness. He wants to go lay down, cry himself to sleep, cry himself awake, and repeat.

“Bye!” Mr. Stark calls back. “Thanks for taking care of the kid for me.”

“Of course, Tony.”

Peter is ushered through the doors of the hospital softly. He hates feeling weak, but he knows without the help he’d topple over. 

Mr. Stark has never been particularly physical when it came to affection, so he tries to bask in it as much as his aching heart lets him. 

The doors of the hospital swing open. Fresh air bombards his nostrils almost painfully as cold wind sweeps across his body. An involuntary shiver passes through him.

Mr. Stark notices. “Cold?”

Peter shrugs, jostling the hand on his shoulder.

The weight suddenly disappears. Before Peter is given time to mourn the loss, soft material is draped across his shoulders. He glances towards it.

A designer tuxedo coat lays over his own ratty clothing. It’s funny how the items contrast each other. 

“Happy’s parked just over there.” Mr. Stark points to a sleek black car in the distance. 

Peter feels too mentally exhausted to joke about the shitty parking spot. 

Happy jumps out of the car to meet them, hurriedly pulling open the door. Peter slides in without a word.

“Heya, Hap, lets get us home, ‘kay?”

Happy sends a worried glance Peter’s way but hums in affirmation anyway. Within the minute, the car is starting and pulling out of the driveway.

New York’s streets are full of traffic, and even as a driver cuts Happy off, the man does not cuss him out. Mr. Stark does not offer a joke.

That, in the end, is what brings on the realization.

May is dead.

He is completely and utterly alone.

Tears well up once again and he stares at the ceiling, willing them to dry. 

“How did you know that doctor?” He doesn’t look away from the roof of the Audi when he asks.

“We went to college together. Did a couple engineering projects with her. All that good stuff.” Mr. Stark pauses, as if wondering if he should continue. He sniffs and reaches a decision. “She loved— loves people,”

Peter can feel Mr. Stark’s eyes flick towards him.

“I think she realized she could save people with her own hands, so, she changed majors to become a surgeon. Do you know what one of the first lessons you learn in medical school is?”

Silence reigns in the car.

“You can’t save everyone.”

Peter pretends he doesn’t know Mr. Stark is no longer just talking about Sofia.

—

A film of light filters through his sleep. He groans and shifts.

Soft waves of clean sheets are all around him. A squishy mattress sinks perfectly under his weight.

The room is filled with too much sunlight for it to be early in the morning.

He comes to four conclusions.

One, that this mattress is probably worth more than his life.

Two, that this room is probably worth more than fifty of his lives.

And three, that this is definitely not his room. Or his house for that matter. May would’ve already woken him up hours ago, by the crack of dawn.

The fourth conclusion approaches slowly before the realization returns full force.

May _ would’ve _ if she were still _ alive. _

Peter stumbles out of the bed, surprising himself by the amount of carelessness he shows with the soft silky sheets. 

_ “Peter, Boss is in the kitchen if you’d like to join him,” _FRIDAY calls.

“No thanks.” 

_ “He insists.” _

Peter glares at the ceiling, desperately hoping FRIDAY understands the look.

If she does, she doesn’t comment.

Without any further complaint, Peter shuffles through the doorway of the spacious room and into a simplistic hallway. He knows his way around the compound well enough, finding the kitchen without much issue. 

Mr. Stark is there with a simple baggy t-shirt and flannel pants. 

“Do you eat enough, kid?” Is the first thing that Mr. Stark says.

“Why?”

“You’re really light. Is that a spider thing?” The man asks while fishing his arm inside a cabinet.

Peter scrubs at his face and tries to blink the grogginess in his mind away. His eyes are swollen from tears and they sting intermittently. 

“I’m not sure,” Peter mutters. “How do you know how much I weigh?” 

“Who do you think took your ass upstairs?”

Peter shrugs and awkwardly folds his arms over his chest. They sit uncomfortably. He drops them back to his side.

“You should eat. Do you want cereal? Of course you do— kids like cereal, right? Like Trix?” 

Mr. Stark’s arm disappears further into the cabinet and he pulls out a bright red box. 

Peter’s grateful, really, that Mr. Stark is trying so hard. He is.

But he just stares at the childish red box blankly and mumbles a quiet “I’m not hungry.” 

Mr. Stark deflates and guilt washes over him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m—“ Peter sucks in a wavering breath. “Really, you don’t have to do all this for me.”

Mr. Stark sets down the box and levels Peter with a stare. “Pete, I need you to know that I’m here for you. I will always be here. That was a choice.” 

Peter looks to his feet. May must’ve asked him to take Peter in. Mr. Stark doesn’t simply _ choose _to deal with a sixteen year old kid with enhanced senses and no good qualities. 

“I’m serious.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark, but I’m good. You _ really _don’t have to do this.” Peter’s fingers take their familiar spot at the hem off his t-shirt as he fiddles with the fabric. This particular shirt is old and ratty, and the seams of it are barely hanging on. It rips under his fingers but he doesn’t stop. “I can last two years in foster care, y’know, and then I’ll be old enough to drive and like be an adult and… Yeah,” his voice trails off.

Mr. Stark turns away from him. He maneuvered around the kitchen with an air of uncertainty when he was searching for food, Peter notes, but he locates a cup and the coffee machine with what looks like muscle memory. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he grabs two glasses.

He fills one with coffee and swings open the fridge to grab juice, filling the other to the brim and spilling some of it on the tabletop.

Peter blinks.

Mr. Stark holds the drink out to him.

“Sorry, kiddo, no can do.” He drinks his own coffee in a single gulp and cringes. “Unless you really want to. It’s your choice. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

Peter hesitantly grabs the juice from Mr. Stark’s outstretched hold. Some of it dribbles down his fingers. “Why?”

Mr. Stark throws his empty glass haphazardly into the sink. Peter’s neck prickles and he already knows what will be the outcome. There’s a loud crack. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to care.

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” He grunts. “I like having you ‘round, kid. You’re fucking smart. Sometimes funny. Kinda annoying… You’re like…” Mr. Stark gestures widely around him. “Like a little puppy.” 

Peter raises a single eyebrow, desperately trying to call attention to something other than the growing redness on his cheeks. “Yeah?” He seats himself on the little stools lining the island of the kitchen.

“A little… Golden Retriever. Or a Lab. Or a Pit Bull.”

“You sound a little indecisive about that.” Peter’s grin grows past the sipping of his orange juice.

“You think I know dog breeds?” Mr. Stark scoffs. “Doesn’t matter, you get the point.”

The room is filled with an awkward silence.

Peter can’t tell if it’s uncomfortable or if he’s just thinking it is. Mr. Stark plops down in the seat next to him. His mentor looks completely content, while Peter is trying to drink his juice as quietly as he can. It feels like his swallow is loud enough for everyone to hear. A cringe morphs his expression and he gently sets down the glass.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark glances at him from the corner of his eye and shrugs. “Anytime, kiddo.”

Another long pause. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark?”

There’s a weird screech from the stool as Mr. Stark spins to face him. “Can you quit that?”

Peter blanches. A deathly fear washes over him and he wonders if he fucked up enough to get kicked out. 

“I’m sorry.”

Seemingly struck by realization, Mr. Stark jolts in his seat. “No, no, damn, kid, I meant stop with the Mr. Stark. Makes me feel like an old man.”

“Oh.”

“Just, Tony. Call me Tony.”

Peter just nods and busies himself with the rest of his juice.

They don’t talk much after, occasionally exchanging jokes, but comfort finally reaches Peter, even in the silence. 

—

He may be naive, but he’s not stupid. 

Peter knows how Mr. Stark avoids topics and he knows he’s been skirting around Peter’s new living arrangement for the past days.

If he had to list how many times Mr. Stark has tried to bring up Peter’s old apartment and the necessary step of moving out old belongings, and failed to, Peter would’ve had a complete novel.

Though, he understands the hesitancy. Even Peter knows he’s hardly ready to face the onslaught of fresh memories, but it has to be done.

So, without a second thought, Peter steels himself and blurts, “I think I have to go back.”

Mr. Stark drops his fork into his Fettuccine Alfredo.

Peter quickly backtracks. “I mean like, not _ go back, _just grab some things.”

Mr. Stark picks up his fork and glares at his hands as though they betrayed him. “Kid, you don’t have to. I can send someone—“

“I think I _ need _to.”

Mr. Stark looks wary but does not disagree.

—

Although Happy insisted to drive them, Mr. Stark refused him. The grumpy man looked dejected, to Peter’s surprise, and Peter spent the next hour before leaving trying to cheer him up.

He’s not sure if it worked.

Having Tony Stark drive him around is something he will never get used to. Especially when most traffic rules don’t apply to the infamous Tony Stark. Hell, sitting in the front seat of an Audi is way out of his league. 

They reach the apartment complex in a little over three hours.

Everything is so familiar, he thinks as he steps out of the car, but so different. It doesn’t feel like he’s returning home.

It feels like going to a cemetery.

Peter hikes up the stairs with a complaining Tony behind him. He knows the man is trying to lighten the mood, but Peter’s too focused on his erratic heartbeat to care.

He stops.

The numbers that title their apartment building look more like the name on a grave than anything else.

“You okay?” Mr. Stark asks.

Peter breathes.

It doesn’t come short.

Pushing open the door softly, it’s hinges creak it’s normal tune. Soft but dirtied carpet bunches under his shoes.

Everything is exactly how he left it days ago. But it’s lifeless.

Whereas normally the hoodies strewn across the living room couch could tell a story of an unorganized teenager and the ruckus in the kitchen of a cooking fail, it means nothing now.

He looks and sees plain items.

He supposes it was May who brought life to this place. It must’ve burned out with her.

A soft pressure on his back makes him realize he froze.

“You sure about this?” Mr. Stark asks.

Peter nods jerkily and steps further into his apartment.

He picks up one of the hoodies on the couch. It makes him feel nothing.

Unsure of whether that’s a good or bad thing, he gently places it back.

“I don’t know what to take,” He says simply. It’s strange how disconnected he feels to the world. Everything could be tilted on its axis and he’d be standing there dumbly, feeling nothing.

“Take some memories with you, anything that means something.” Mr. Stark suggests.

Peter scans the whole room again.

“I just— I don’t know what means something.”

The man’s eyebrows furrow. “How about in your room?”

Peter shuffles across the carpet and swings open the door to his room. 

There’s an incomplete lego set lying on the floor. Ned had brought it over to cheer him up, but it hadn’t done much good. 

It’s the only thing even slightly sentimental in the entirety of the room.

He storms out.

“This is pointless!” Peter growls, kicking his foot against the floor.

Mr. Stark looks up from the papers he was inspecting in the kitchen. “This isn’t something you solve with your head.” He says simply.

It’s oddly cryptic. Usually he is blunt, brutally honest even.

“Take a deep breath. If you still don’t want anything, we’ll leave, capiche?” 

Peter grunts in irritation. He swiftly turns on his heel and passes his room, before abruptly halting in front of May’s.

He lays his palm flat against the white wood and pushes.

He steps in.

Peter has been in May’s room more times than he could count. As a teenager, he had tried to move away from childlike tendencies such as nightmares, but he didn’t have the luxury of peaceful sleeping. When things got particularly bad, he’d stumble to her room and cry with her arms around him.

Something chips around his heart and he sucks in a steadying breath. His neck is tingling, the feeling now spreading down his spine. It’s a tell-tale sign of an oncoming panic attack, one he chooses to ignore.

He looks around, taking in his surroundings. 

The bed is made and her desk is tidy. A bright pink post-it note is laying in the center of the cheap wooden desk. Curiosity piqued, he steps closer. 

Dust has already collected itself across its surface.

Picking it up delicately, he then reads it.

It’s a grocery list.

So fucking mundane. It’s so _ May. _

It’s not a teary goodbye, or some cliche written diary, it’s a goddamn grocery list.

He clenches his fists, crinkling the paper.

Even in the end, she wanted to provide for him, to be there for him.

He can’t tell if there is air in the room anymore or if his lungs just won’t work. One minute he’s standing, the next he’s sinking to the floor.

Peter throws the sticky note, but it simply glides down to the floor without a sound.

Instantly, regret fills him. He scrambles for the list and stuffs it into his pocket. He’s so frustrated.

Anger boils within him and he has no clue why. So he screams. A completely normal reaction.

_ No, it probably isn’t. _

Mr. Stark’s foot steps send vibrations through the floor as he nears Peter. The static spreads from his spine until suddenly it’s making his fingertips feel numb. The stimulation makes Peter gasp in pain. 

“Stop,” he begs.

Mr. Stark slows and crouches down, edging closer.

“I needed her, Mr. Stark— I—“ Peter sobs. So many emotions shift through him and he can’t keep track of them.

He curls into his knees and wraps his arms around his torso. It’s a makeshift hug, the best he can get now. May gave the best hugs. 

His arms are nothing but a resemblance of her touch. An imitation that will never be enough.

And suddenly, his arms aren’t the only ones there.

May hugged fiercely. Peter remembers the way she tucked his head into her neck, the way she whispered sweet nothings into his ear. The softness of her hands as they rubbed his shoulder blades.

Mr. Stark hugs with uncertainty. As if every cell in his body can’t fathom the idea of physical contact but are forced to offer it. Peter can feel the rough calluses on his hands as they navigate his back, looking for a place to lay. It’s awkward, but Peter knows he’s trying. 

Peter can’t help the wheezing laugh that escapes his mouth. Tony fucking Stark, his lifelong idol with more issues than any normal person should have is trying to comfort _ him. _Peter Parker.

It’s unbelievable and yet here he is.

Mr. Stark pulls back in alarm, mouth opening to say something—

Peter launches back into his chest, pressing his face against his shoulder. His mentor’s arms return. 

_ “Please,” _Peter whimpers.

_ Don’t go. _

Mr. Stark’s hands tighten around him. His voice is suspiciously gruff when he answers “I’ve got you.”

So Peter lets himself be held. He lets all the despair pour out of him.

Tears flow freely and snot drips from his nose. It’s ugly, he knows that, and he makes a note to apologize for ruining Mr. Stark’s dress shirt later. For now, he sobs into the silky fabric and occasionally screams out his pain. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t whisper to him like May did. He’s silent. But whenever Peter lets out a particularly loud whine, the arms encircling him waver ever so slightly and pat his back. The touch is just as comforting as any words could be.

And when his exhaustion catches up to him and his eyes droop dangerously, Mr. Stark mutters his first words in an hour.

“I’ve got you.”

With as much energy as he can muster, Peter murmurs back.

“Thank you, Tony.”

The sticky note feels lighter in his pocket and he drifts to sleep.

—

They spend the rest of week in the compound. Peter is a weird mix of extrovert and introvert, but after the spill of emotions in May’s apartment, he feels too empty to go anywhere. Tony’s lab was a good distraction.

But the man himself had not made any public appearances and no random scandal is rising. Peter swears the outside world must think Tony dead.

Usually, the media are vultures. Any story revolving around Tony Stark is their go-to cash cow. But this week has been silent.

He knows that Tony likes the peace, but Pepper is another story. She handles the rumors, reporters, basically everything Tony is too lazy to pay attention to. The odd silence on the eccentric billionaire’s part may not be noticed yet, but he’s sure it won’t last long.

So when Pepper sends Tony a warning look before stepping gracefully out of the living room, Peter knows something is up.

What he didn’t know, however, is that something was up with _ him. _

It becomes painfully clear when Tony chuckles nervously and turns his head to face Peter.

“When was the last time we saw daylight?” Tony asks, sounding weirdly wistful. He folds one leg gracefully over the other and crosses his arms.

Peter hesitantly lowers on the cushion next to him and shrugs. “Dunno…”

“It’s been at least a week, according to my lovely wife.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Tony grunts. “Kid, I’m the master of shutting myself out of the world. You gotta get out of the house.”

“I really don’t want to,” Peter murmurs. 

Tony taps his ear. “I don’t have super hearing, kiddo. Gonna have to speak up.”

Peter clears his throat, and repeats himself. “I really don’t want to.”

With a heavy sigh, Tony sinks back into the couch. He rubs a hand over his face. 

“God, you really are my Mini-Me, aren’t you?”

Peter shrugs.

“Okay, okay, how about we get something to eat,” Tony suggests.

“Like what?”

Tony pauses and presses a thoughtful hand to his goatee. “Thai. You like Thai, yeah?”

“No Thai. Please.” 

It feels like a betrayal to go out somewhere with Tony. He desperately wants to shove the man away, so that he doesn’t have to worry about replacing May. 

Tony looks at him weirdly. “Oookay. No Thai. Shawarma?”

“Sounds gross.”

Tony flinches back, appalled. “Excuse— You teenagers have no respect these days.”

Peter scoffs. “Says you.”

Affection, clear as day, flashes in Tony’s eyes. It’s such a strange look on him, but it looks right. A smile pulls at Peter’s lips.

“Shawarma, then?” He prompts.

Tony’s resulting grin is blinding. 

—

It turns out that the most skilled reporters know Tony Stark. 

They know his tendencies and his choices.

So it’s no surprise when a flock of them show up at the Mediterranean restaurant Tony frequents.

Tony grumbles the whole time. He whispers jokes under his breath and addresses Peter at a volume only he can hear.

It’s nice, having Tony’s voice to focus on in the sea of noise around them. People swarm impossibly closer.

A microphone is shoved into his face and he lets out a squeak of surprise. Tony goes still next to him.

“Who are you?“ 

Panic wells up in Peter’s throat but he swallows it down. 

“Hey, hey, back up,” Tony grunts, maneuvering Peter past the intruding hands.

“Mr. Stark—“

“The kid—“

“Who—“

Voices bombard Peter, vibrating painfully against his skull. He can’t effectively shut them out, at least, not without the noise cancelling earbuds Tony made for him. 

Tony’s strides forward quickly, pushing softly at Peter’s back to the point he’s stumbling over his converse-clad feet.

A waiter opens the restaurant door for them and ushers the two in hurriedly. Reporters try to pile in, but the man simply wags his finger at them and shuts the doors.

The restaurant is empty, it’s only residents being himself, Tony, the helpful waiter, and a bored looking cook.

“Thanks, Sal,” Tony mutters, taking off his sunglasses.

“Anytime.” The guy, or Sal, has a heavy Australian accent. 

Peter squints curiously at him. 

Sal must notice, since he takes a tentative step forward and offers a hand. “I’m Sal, a buddy of the billionaire.” He gestures to Tony with his head.

With a discrete glance towards his mentor, Peter hesitantly takes the waiter’s hand and gives it a firm shake.

Sal whistles appreciatively. “Hell of a grip!” His hands lower to wipe on his apron before landing on his hips. “Where’s the rest of the gang?”

“No world ending problem, no rest of the gang.” Tony shrugs and shuffles gracefully to a booth. He plops onto the cheap seat and crosses his legs. 

Peter follows with uncertainty, seating himself across from Tony. The space between the booths is thin enough that their knees almost touch.

“The usual.” Tony winks at the waiter.

Sal nods, not even bothering to use the notepad pocketed in the apron. “And for you?”

Peter fumbles for the menu. The first page makes him drowsy. He feels oddly pressed for time, a weird tingling at his neck that’s not quite his sense, telling him that they need to leave soon. The lettering blurs together as anxiety consumes him.

“He’ll get what I’m getting and one of those real overpriced teas you guys sell.”

“You hear ‘em, Donny?” 

“Yep!” A voice replies, supposedly Donny. 

“It’ll be right out.” Sal waves a hand towards them and walks off.

Peter exhales in relief. The sensation at his neck has yet to end. 

“You ‘kay?” 

“I dunno…” Peter admits. “Got a weird feeling.”

Tony regards him, eyes fleeting across his face. “If it gets worse, you let me know, got it?”

Peter nods and drops his head against the table, pillowing them with his arms. “I think it’s the reporters. I can still hear them.” 

He glances up to the sound of shuffling to see Tony pushing himself out of the booth. He walks with purpose to the doors and swings them open. 

“Fuck off!” Tony’s voice encompasses the others, easily becoming the only one heard. “Get out of here, please.” He amends.

Peter assumes the shocked faces of the reporters called for the reiteration. 

The sound doubles, only for a minute, before it dwindles. He can hear the stray reporters, but it’s enough for the prickling at his neck to recede. 

Tony shuts the doors quickly, briskly wiping down his suit before moving back to the booth.

“Better?” Tony asks as he slides into the cushion.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Peter answers bashfully.

Tony shrugs. “No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

Peter’s heart swells with an intense feeling that isn’t sorrow for the first time in the last week.

—

He can’t help himself. 

There’s a constant thrumming in his veins, ever since his first taste of being Spider-man. Especially after a tiring day; it feels like some sort of therapy to be Spider-man. So when Tony heads off to bed, Peter takes advantage.

He leaves to satisfy that buzz, if only for a little bit.

New York City is beautiful at night. From the skyscraper, Peter can still hear the sounds of traffic and chatty pedestrians. But it’s quieter - more like he’s part of the audience attending a symphony rather than playing among one.

He lifts his mask over his nose and breathes in. It always smells like pollution, and as always, he’s more sensitive to it. But his freedom makes up for it. 

As Spider-man, New York is his own. 

“Back off!” A desperate voice calls, easily distinguishable among the others.

Spider-man jumps, pulling his mask back down mid-air before following the noise.

Three men surround a woman in an alley, a normal occurrence in the city. She moves fluidly, he’ll admit, as he watches her take down one of her attackers. 

But she needs more practice and is easily overpowered by a kick to the back of her knees. She crumbles forward, out of his field of vision. 

Peter launches from his perch and lands dramatically behind them.

Maybe, if he had the energy, he’d make a quip about the cliche brute builds of the men, but that energy is gone. He’s having a crisis with the need for sleep and the need for movement. 

“Shit!” One of them grunts, backing away from Peter. The other, with a knife in hand, doesn’t seem to get the memo, since he leaps for Peter, who simply side steps. The man is undeterred and using his momentum, pivots into Peter, punching into his back. 

A growl rips from Spider-man’s throat.

He elbows the man in the stomach, effectively knocking the air out of him. The knife skids across the asphalt.

The next goon launches after him, and Peter, not risking a second, lands a punch to the attacker’s windpipe.

The man launches backwards into the wall. The resounding crack is deafening, only to his own ears. 

In a fit of nerves, he rushes forward and checks for a pulse. Peter sucks in a breath of relief to feel the strong, slightly sped up, thumbing of the mugger’s heart.

“Spider-man?” A feminine voice pipes up from the shadowed walls of the alley.

A flinch wracks through his body as he suddenly remembers why he is standing among now unconscious bodies. 

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

Her shaky exhales are loud. With one final gasp, she lets out a sigh and collects herself. 

Peter can see her mussed hair and frazzled clothes. He steps closer to help her up.

The woman takes the hand gently, letting herself tip to her feet. It’s not a second later that she pulls Peter close to her chest.

“Thank you, thank you so, so much,” she breathes out, voice flooded with emotion. 

It shouldn’t feel like he was the one that’s been saved, but it does.

—

Peter isn’t necessarily subtle. He’s too clumsy to ever be considered discrete, even as Spider-man. So when the window screeches under the unrelenting lift of his fingers, he really has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Hey? Fri?”

_ “Yes, Peter? _” Friday’s voice rings from above.

“Don’t tell Tony.”

There’s a long moment where she doesn’t respond before sounding almost sheepish, she replies, _ “Boss has already been alerted, Peter.” _

There’s only a span of seconds for panic to reach him when the door to his room slides open.

“Hey, Underoos.” Tony’s smile is condescending.

“H-Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies sweetly. He inwardly curses the suit for being skintight. It leaves him no room to fiddle. Instead, he wrings his hands nervously.

“Long night?” Tony stalks further into the room. He pauses to look down his nose in front of Peter before seating himself on the unmade bed.

Peter laughs humorlessly. “Yeah.”

“You can imagine my surprise when the only other resident besides Pepper and I didn’t show up by our agreed curfew.” 

“Yeah.”

Shadow casts itself further over Tony’s face. Peter can’t tell if he’s just imagining it or if it’s a Tony Stark thing.

“So, when FRIDAY, tells me Peter Parker, himself, is climbing through the window,” Tony glances down at the expensive watch on his wrist, “three hours later, you must understand my… Irritation.”

“Tony—“ Peter pulls of his mask and steps backward.

“I said no patrol!” Tony throws his hands up. The movement is so similar to May’s tantrums that Peter loses his breath. “Why can’t you listen!?”

“Mr— Tony—“

“No, kid, you need to zip it.” Tony’s hand swipes in front of his face but all he can see is May. The strong lines of her fingers as they squeezed his. There was always a softness in her voice, balanced with a sharp edge of defiance. She was everything he admired. But when she was diagnosed, the edge disappeared. The lines in her fingers became skeletal and fragile. But his admiration never dwindled. 

“Tony—“

“You need to get this,” Tony circles his hand vaguely around Peter, “together. What if you fucking died tonight, huh!?”

The sharpness in his voice shakes Peter to the core. He knows he should be listening, but his mind is screaming for May. 

“And now you won’t answer me? I get all this teenage broody shit, I tolerate it, but this is too much.” 

“P—lease,” Peter grits out. His palms are starting to bleed from the pressure of his nails. He looks down towards them, just for a second, to see four crimson crescents seeping through the material of the suit.

Whatever else Tony was going to say dies on his tongue. Instead, he sighs heavily and pulls Peter against him. 

Distantly, Peter is aware that the white dress shirt will probably be stained red. He’s sure that Tony’s aware too. The billionaire doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, Bambi, it’s okay.” 

Something cracks in him.

He doesn’t know what does it, not really.

Peter shoves Tony away. There’s a loud clatter as the man knocks into the dresser behind him, sending several bits of metal Peter left lying around flying.

“It’s not fucking okay!” Peter screams. It’s not, it never will be. If he lets Tony replace May, Tony will die. 

Peter figures he’d follow, if it ever came to that.

“Just stop acting like you care!” Anger burns at his core; it’s scorching and painful. Everything he’s held back feels like it’s bubbling over.

“You- You don’t understand this!” Peter runs his hands anxiously through his hair. “It’s not just- just okay.” 

He can hardly see through the tears that have clouded his vision. Only the blurred figure of Tony is visible. His whole posture looks defeated, with sagging shoulders and a hung head.

Only a sliver of guilt passes through Peter’s agony, but it’s enough to make him pause. Tony didn’t sign up for this. Hell, the man has no semblance on how to offer a childhood he never had.

It’s blatantly obvious. 

Peter is so fucking stupid. He was thrown into Tony’s care without a thought to what his mentor had to say.

So, he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin in defiance. The words pass his lips unnaturally. 

“I don’t want anything to do with you. Stop acting like you l— care.” 

The harshness sends sharp stabs of fire through Peter’s ribs. But it has to be done. In this, he’s saving Tony. Being merciful.

Tony’s eyes widen and he stumbles to fix his posture. 

“FRIDAY, let me out.” Peter’s voice is straining, cutting out at all the wrong moments. The keypad next to the door shines blue.

_ “Of course. However, may I first suggest calming down? Your heart rate is elevated. Potential hazards.” _

“Thanks, dear, that won’t be necessary. Initiate Bueller Protocol,” Tony answers before he gets the chance.

_ “Activated.” _

The blue light disappears.

“Pete, kid, I need you to think. Please,” says Tony firmly. 

Peter turns back to him. “Why do you care,” he whispers darkly.

“You seriously— Damn, teenagers,” Tony mutters under his breath. A twitch at the corner of his lips tells Peter that he is fully aware that he was heard, which only seems to amuse him.

Peter scowls.

“I don’t know why I care,” Tony admits.

Although Peter was trying to distance himself, the confession is still hurtful.

“But I know that I do. The why doesn’t matter.”

Peter’s resolve weakens. He can be selfish this once.

“I’m tired, Tony. So, _ so, _tired.”

“I know kiddo, I know.” Tony takes a hesitant step forward and taps at Peter’s temple. “Eyes up, bud.”

Peter meets Tony’s gaze. The man is usually hard to read, eyes dark and closed off. But now he can see it all, and briefly, he wonders if he is worthy to know the _ real _Tony Stark. To see past the bravado.

Peter decides he likes what he finds.

Tony’s eyes are expressive, swirling with understanding and affection. A wan smile pulls at Peter’s lips.

“I was really worried, kid. Pepper had to physically restrain me from going, and it wasn’t as fun as it usually is.” Tony waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Peter groans. “You’re so gross.”

All he gets in reply is a laugh and fond eyes.

—

“Hey, uh, kid, can you come over here?”

Peter looks up from his homework and brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “Did you burn the food? Pepper is literally _ right _there.”

Pepper lets out a bark of laughter. “He could have Gordon Ramsey on his ass and still mess up.” 

Tony raises an offended hand to his chest. “You—“ He points to Pepper. ”I regret marrying you, and I regret a—“

Peter levels Tony with sad eyes.

The man crumples and waves his hand dismissively, turning back to his eggs. 

“Tony…” Pepper warns.

Peter flicks his gaze to each of them in confusion. He has to be missing something. The nervous air in the room is palpable. 

When it becomes apparent Tony isn’t saying anything, he stands up from the couch and jogs to the kitchen island. “What’s up?”

Tony tenses. 

“Tony?” Peter prompts. Worry starts to gnaw at him.

“Hey, Underoos, what do you say we make this official?”

“What?”

Pepper looks like she’s about to explain, but whatever she sees in Tony’s expression makes her pause. 

“Pepper and I were wondering if you wanna be our kid. Officially. Legally.” 

“What?”

Tony laughs fondly, “We wanna adopt you.” He cringes. “God, this is so sappy.”

“You— Me?” 

“Yeah, you and me. And Pepper, can’t forget Pepper.” 

There’s this feeling, that Peter has never been able to understand. It’s a pain in the chest, a tightness that can’t be undone. But it’s not the sorrowful type - not the breathless feeling of staring down at a grave, it’s the joy of realizing that he loves someone.

He understands it now. He’s had the feeling with Uncle Ben and May. 

Ned and MJ.

Tony and Pepper.

He doesn’t realize he’s not breathing until Tony is right in front of him, worriedly encouraging him. There’s warm tracks dripping down his cheeks. He laughs.

Tony pulls away and scans his face.

Peter’s grin must be contagious, because not a second later, Tony is mirroring his expression.

Pepper stands off to the side, her pinched eyebrows loosening. The corners of her eyes crinkle with a soft smile.

“I love you guys. Like a lot. Like so much that it hurts - like it physically—“

“Ditto, kid.” Tony says. He meets Pepper’s eyes.

“We love you, Pete.”

—

Peter misses May. 

What he has left is a sticky note.

But he comes to realize that he is left with more.

Uncle Ben created Spider-Man. He learned everything to teach him. 

May Parker shaped Peter Parker. She did everything for him.

Tony Stark shapes both. 

The pen in his hand wavers ever so slightly. Emotions threaten to overwhelm him. 

With a quick glance to the man and woman who will become his legal guardians — he finally gets it.

Peter is a broken boy. Tony is a broken man. 

And yet, he feels like there is no better place he’d rather be. 

So when the ink signs gracefully across adoption papers, there’s not a doubt in his mind that May and Ben want nothing more. 

And when Tony smiles at him like he’s just won the world, nothing could ever top the love that swells in his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you! please leave comments and let me know what you think or if you want me to try to continue this in a series.  
i also am noticing a surplus of sad things posted on this site, so i just wanna say, if you’re feeling really down and need to vent, writing is always a good outlet.  
i love you all and i hope you know that you mean something in the grand scheme of things! ❤️


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